clovniss hunger games story
by sandmanproductions
Summary: Katniss, an awkward young girl, has been reaped for the games - strong, beautiful, and the child of pride - Clove is everything the shamed Katniss is not. Yet despite their differences, the girls become steadfast companions. Their bond deepens and become skilled in the arts of war and medicine torn between love and fear the Fates will test them both as never before. I own nothing
1. Chapter 1

If you were particular about these things, the first time I'd seen her was on the train ride to the Capitol.

We were watching the recaps of the reapings when perhaps the most beautiful girl I had ever seen walked onto the stage of district two and volunteered herself. She wasn't classically gorgeous like the female from district one was, but she was the type to just stand out noticeably in a crowd. Someone you could never miss.

We were rushed out of the train and sent to the remake room for several hours to be "redone"

Tiny, Gemstone-Sized Capitol was the smallest of our cities, set in a northern crook of land between the ridges of mountains. Its president, Snow, was one of those men whom the gods love: not divine himself, but clever, the training center has a tower designed exclusively for the tributes and their teams. This will be our home until the actual games. Each district has an entire floor. You simply step onto an elevator and press the number of your district. Easy enough to remember. I've ridden the elevator a couple of times but this one is made of crystal so that you can watch everything shrink as you ascend, It's exhilarating and I'm tempted to ride again but I'm swept off to some other corridor.

I was led through the place by a servant whose name I had not caught. Perhaps he had not said it. The halls were smaller than at home, as if restrained by modesty. The walls and floors were metal, shiner than that of district 12. My feet were dark against its pallor. I had nothing with me. My few belongings were being carried to my room, I had felt a strange panic as I was parted from it. It had been my compainion for weeks of travel, a reminder of my worth. I guessed I was being led to a waiting room, where I would kneel and pour my "gratitude". But the servant stopped suddenly at a side door. I was unnerved, I walked into the waiting area and saw her, her dark wreathed hair and pink soles of her feet. _That is what a tribute should be_.

She was lying on her back on a wide, pillowed bench, balancing a lyre on her stomach. Idly, she plucked at it. She did not hear me enter, or she did not choose to look. This is how I first began to understand my place here. I was negligible.

I took another step forward, scuffing my feet, and her head lolled to the side to regard me. I gaped at the cold shock of her beauty, deep-stormy eyes sharp featerues. It struck from me a sudden, springing dislike. She yawned, her eyes heavy-lidded. What's your name? I ground my jaw shut and would not speak. She asked again louder: "What's your name?" My silence was excusable the first time; perhaps I had not heard her. Now it was not.

"Katniss." It was the name my father had given me I loved him but now it tasted of bitterness on my tongue. It was a plant. I waited for her to make a joke out of it, some witty jape about my disgrace. She did not. Perhaps, I thought, she is too stupid to. She rolled onto her side to face me. A stray lock of black fell into her eyes; she blew it away. "My name is Clove."

I jerked my chin up, an inch, in bare acknowledgment. We regarded each other for a moment. Then she blinked and yawned again, her mouth cracked wide as a cat's. "Welcome to the Capitol." I had been raised in fear of the peacekeepers and knew dismissal when I heard it, almost as if the servant _actually_ answered to her he returned almost on cue to show me to my room.

**This is my first chapter and their will be more to come please tell me what you think I will try to make this series as long as possible and for the sake of clairity I will have them stay in the training center longer then originally written to add more depth to the story**


	2. Chapter 2

**sorry this took so long and before you say anything yes I did a little copy n paste from the book please don't sue me I also put a song in from prince of Egypt because I thought it was fitting again please don't sue me I own nothing and receive no profits oh and don't forget to review please it would really help to know what you think**

A servant showed me to my room, My quarters are larger than our entire house back home. It is soft and plush, I take a shower that has atleast a hundred options temp, soaps, etc. I choose to have a machine blow dry my hair, and it rests on my shoulders in a glossy curtain. I walked stiff-legged to my bed and waited for dinner.

It's almost ten. I clean my teeth and smooth back my hair again. Anger temporarily blocked out my nervousness about meeting the other tributes, but now I can feel my anxiety rising again. The room for meals was a long hall its single great window opening onto a splendid view of mountains. It was large enough to feed all of us, many times over; the tables were scratched from years of clattering plates. The food was extravagant and plentiful, fish, soft bread, cheese, steak, lamb really the list goes on across the room I caught the flash of dark hair in lamplight. _Clove_. She sat with a group of careers whose mouths were wide with laughter with something said or done. _That is what a tribute should be._ I stare down at my bread, and rub it with my fingers.

That night I dreamed of my father gory images of earlier games my mother gone prim terrified and alone I scream for my father to leave the mine as it explodes, I awoke screaming aloud, the pinpricks in my flesh. My breathing was harsh in the silence I escaped to the roof, to the cool windy evening air, I catch my breath at the view. The twinkling of the gemmed capitol is amazing. Electricity in 12 comes and goes, usually we only have it a few hours and often rely on candlelight. Except when the games are being aired or some message of importance to watch but here there is no shortage ever. I walk to the railing and see the garden I go to examine it beautiful flowers and wind chimes, I sing to myself to ease my fear, an old lullaby my father would sing.

_Hush now my baby, be still now don't cry_

_Sleep as your rocked by the stream,_

_Sleep and remember, my last lullaby,_

_So I'll be with you, when you dream._

Katniss heard someone breathe so she turned her head to see who it was. But the person was already gone. She could only make out the person's black hair in a pony tail. I awoke tired I take a shower and head down to our dining room in the hopes of food I am not disappointed I eat bread and drink milk a young avox stands at attention I can't help but feel guilt for him so I slip him some of this extravagant food at first he holds it looking at it as if it were fake then he eyes me questionably I press my finger to my lips and make a silent shushing noise he smiles and gorges himself gratefully I load a plate eggs, sausages, batter cakes, oranges, melon, I eat and serve a second plate of hot grain and beef and afterwards I lazily nibble at a roll and sip water, Haymitch and Peeta come in bid me good morning and eat I'm nervous about the training we have to do something impressive for game makers or we won't have sponsors, when Haymitch is finished his meal gets a flask and says to us best not to show anyone your skills catch em by surprise in the arena there's nothing more dangerous an enemy who doesn't reveal her skills and looks harmless when I ask why this is he tells me that they won't take me seriously, won't give it their all, lower their guard around me, I have to admit that does sound tempting. Afterwards we go to the training center and I go to the spear throwing station, I am given one a hand corrects my grip then corrects it again. I threw it and grazed the target edge. The trainer blew out his breath and passed me a second spear my eyes traveled over the other tributes, searching for the district 2 girl. She was not there. I sighted once more at the target it punctured at the spear I threw.

We were dismissed for lunch, this time it was a magnificent courtyard the tributes eagerly raced outside to fresh air, my eyes were heavy, and my arms ached I was more tired then hungary, so I settled under the scrubby shade of an olive tree to stare out at the city. No one spoke to me I was easy to ignore, not to different from home really.

The next day was the same, a morning of weary exercises, and then long hours alone. At night, the moon silvered smaller and smaller. I stared until I could see it even when I closed my eyes, the yellow curve bright against the dark of my eyelids. I hoped it would keep the nightmares away, it didn't. I would wake, choking on my horror, and stare at the darkness until dawn.

Meals in the hall eased my nerves with relief. There walls did not seem to press in on me so much, and the stench of Haymitch's wine did not clog in my throat. The buzz of constant voices eased as mouths were stuffed full. I could sit with my food or peeta and breath again.

It was the only time I saw Clove. Her days were separate, or private from us. But she took each meal with us, circulating among the tables. In the huge hall, her beauty shone like a flame, vital and bright, drawing my eye against my will. Her mouth was a plump bow, her nose a small button. When she was seated, her limbs did not skew as others did, but arranged themselves with perfect grace, as if for a sculptor. Many of the careers were this way but perhaps most remarkable was her unself-consciousness. She did not preen or pout as other careers did. Indeed, she seemed utterly unaware of her effect on the boys around her. Though how she was, I could not imagine: they crowed her like dogs in their eagerness, tongues lolling. I watched all this from my corner table, bread crumpled in my fist. The keen edge of my envy was like flint, a spark away from fire. On one of these days she sat closer to me than usual; only a table distant. Her feet scuffed against the metal as she ate. They were as cracked and callused as mine were, but pale and snowy beneath the dirt. _Lapdog,_ I sneered inside my head. She turned, as if she had heard me. For a second our eyes held, and I felt shock run through me. I looked away and finished my meal. my cheeks were hot, and my skin prickled as if before a storm. When, at last, I ventured to look up again, she had turned back to her table and was speaking with the other careers. After that, I was craftier with my observation, kept my head down and my eyes ready to turn away. But she was just as crafty still. At least once a meal she would turn and catch me before I could feign indifference. Those seconds, half seconds, that the line of our gaze connected, were the only moment in my day that I felt anything at all. The sudden swoop of my stomach, the coursing anger. I was like a fish eyeing a hook.

One morning I walked into the sunny dining hall to find her at the table where peeta and I would sit. My table, as I had come to think of it, since few others sat with me. Now, because of her, the benches were full of jostling bodies. I froze, caught between flight and fury. Anger won. This was mine, and she would not push me from it, no matter how many tributes she brought. I sat at an empty space, my shoulders tensed as if for a fight as was common here. Across the table the careers postured and prattled, about a spear and bird they had managed to kill in the courtyard and the exotic trees it housed. I did not hear them. Her presence was like a stone in my shoe, impossible to ignore. Her skin was the color of just born baby flesh, and smooth as polished wood, but with scabs and scars that covered know one else save me. Breakfast finished, and the plates were cleared. A sun full and orange, hung in the morning mist beyond the mountains, all others left. Yet Clove lingered. Absently, she pushed hair from her eyes; it had grown longer over the weeks I had been here. She reached for a bowl on the table that held knives, the hall was connected to the training room so it was common for tributes to take weapons with them when they ate, and gathered several in her hands. With a toss of her wrist, she flicked the knives in the air, one, two, three, juggling them so expertly that her delicate skin did not brake. She added a forth, then a fifth. she sat up and walked out doing this without dropping a single one, I continued to training.

"Katniss!" Haymitch growled in frustration, bringing Katniss out of her thoughts, she had been focusing on the career. "Did you hear a single word I just said?"

At his tribute's blank look, the man gave a huff of frustration and took a swig from the bottle he held. She was going to be the death of him one day. "Remember, save the show for the game makers, lay low until then and don't attract any attention, especially from the careers. Do you understand?"

Katniss nodded then, a series of slow repetitive movements of her head that told him that she wasn't really that interested in whatever he had to say. He resisted the urge to scream in frustration, and even then, Katniss kept eyeing something from the corner of her eyes. past victor tightened his grip on the bottle and took a generous gulp of the clear liquid.

Then he just walked away, remarkable sure-footedly for someone constantly un-sober, confident that Katniss wouldn't notice his leave.

She may be of a deceivingly tiny stature, Katniss decided, but there was no doubt strength in the 4"10 of muscles that made up the career. Clove wore a determined look, and with every flick of her wrists, knives flew from her grasp, always hitting the target dead center. She could see the exhilaration on the careers face's, flushed from hours of training as she kept at the routine. Endless practice had made her movements graceful and precise as fingers expertly wielded the blades.

The other careers lingered around. They went to jeer at other tributes and mock their efforts, but never Clove, who kept at her motions and clung onto her knives as if they were a part of herself.

"You can take a break for lunch now." The appearance of the trainer stopped everyone in their actions and Atala motioned towards the sole exit of the room. "You've got an hour, tops."

Almost instantly, tributes began to break away from their stations for the temptation that was food, leaving either alone or in pairs. From the other end of the room, Katniss saw Cato motion to his district partner. "Clove, we're going now. You coming?"

The main subject of her attention spared him a simple shake of her head, never pausing in her motions and completely missing the look of irritation that formed on the boy's face at the dismissal. "Fine," he huffed. "Suit yourself." With a wave of his hand, the three careers left the area, leaving only Katniss and Clove as the sole two occupants. The game makers had long since deserted the area, and for the first time since the beginning of the session, the training room was bathed in silence.

Clove paused in step to shoot her a look that didn't look half menacing, and against herself, a feeling bloomed inside Katniss. The other girl had ignored all attempts Cato and the rest of the careers had made to catch her attention the entire morning, yet without a single word, Katniss had gained hers. Perhaps it was a misplaced feeling, but a part of her couldn't help it. Hope was a drug, the only thing keeping her afloat on the dark waters of desperation, and she wasn't letting go.

She shook her head slowly, as if to a wild animal whose actions she could hardly predict – the analogy held more truth than she would admit. The career's brows furrowed in thought, and maybe just a bit of confusion that Katniss couldn't help but feel suited her.

"What?," Clove asked.

She took a few careful steps forward to close the distance between them. Save the show for the game makers. Lay low. Both had been advice from her mentor, her only chance of survival. Yet she threw them all away without a second thought, because attention from Clove seemed to matter that much more.

Her feet brought her to the ranged section where her fingers reached instinctively for the bow, and nocked an arrow with ease onto the taunt string. It was flimsier and lighter than the one she had back at district 12, but no doubt stronger than the wood she was accustomed to. She could _feel _Clove's eyes studying her every movement, and it pushed her even further to score a perfect hit. Katniss put her faith on her instincts and muscle memories, two things she trusted more than herself at times.

She aligned the shot expertly, and with a gentle release of her fingers, the arrow flew straight, hitting the bull eyes right in the center.

Clove looked on with an expression of seeming indifference, And Katniss could feel the frustration swelling in her.

The girl pressed a tiny button on the edge of the weapons rack, and with a whirl of mechanics, the used targets were replaced with unmarred ones and a trolley brought back the collection of knives and the single arrow that had been used for that particular session. Clove gently lifted a dagger and with an easy flick of her wrist, the blade cut through the air, striking dead center. She flashed Katniss a patient look, daring her to match her standards, and with a returned determination, both fell in a surreal peace and harmony as one after another, knife and arrow were released with expert skill.

When the last knife drove into the wood with a _thuck, _both tributes leant back to study their handiwork. The career raised a hand to gently loosen her ponytail and walked to the exit, I thought she might stop to make some kind of remark compliment me or belittle my efforts, instead she just passed through the door as if the whole thing never happened.

**sorry this is sort of a filler chapter but don't worry It's gonna get interesting in the meantime please, please review thank you and again please don't sue me I own nothing**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi this is the next chapter guys please, please, PLEASE review**

"YOU WHAT?!" Haymitch growled, I was on our floor and stood before him in the main room, it smelled smoky and sharp from the fire place. Duly I told him the experience I had, the training room, the shooting, competition I had with the district 2 girl. Haymitch nodded. He seemed old to me, bent over, but he was no more than fifty, he did not look like a man who could have won the hunger games.

"You and I are here because you were reaped and I have to mentor you because of my being a VICTOR. You understand this?"

This was the cruelty of adults. _Do you understand?_

"Yes" I told him. I could have told him more, of the dreams that left me bleary and bloodshot, the almost-screams that scraped my throat as I swallowed them down. The way the stars turned and turned through the night above my unsleeping eyes.

Haymitch leaned back and gave a huff, "You can still win this. You may still get to lay eyes on district 12." He meant it as comfort.

The next day perhaps from Haymitch, perhaps from a listening servant, the tributes learned of my recognition of the red headed avox girl. I should have expected it. I had heard them gossip of others often enough; rumors were the only trade the tributes had. Still, it took me by surprise to see the sudden change in them, sneers and fascination blooming on their faces as I passed. Now even the bravest of them would see me as a traitorous freak. The careers watched from a distance enthralled. Their whispers choked me, turned the food in my mouth to ash. I pushed away my plate and sought out corners and spare halls where I might sit undisturbed, except for the occasional passing servant. My narrow world narrowed further: to the cracks in the floor, the carved whorls the wood walls. They rasped softly as I traced them with my fingertip.

"I heard you were here." A clear voice, like ice-melted streams. My head jerked up. I was in a storeroom, my knees against my chest, wedged between things I had dreamed I was a bird, silvered by sun as it leapt from trees. The trees dissolved, became metal and crates again. I looked up to see the one person I did not desire to see.

It was Clove, standing over me. Her face was serious, the gray of her eyes steady as she regarded me. I prickled with guilt. I was not supposed to be here and I knew it. "I have been looking for you," she said. The words were expressionless; they carried no hint of anything I could read. "You have not been going to morning drills."

My face went red. Behind the guilt, anger rose slow and dull. It was practically her right to chastise me and I hated her for it. "How do you know? You aren't there."

"Atala noticed"

"And she sent you." I wanted to make her guilty for her tale-bearing.

"No, I came on my own." Cloves' voice was cool, but I saw her jaw tighten, just a little. "I overheard them speaking. I have come to see if you are ill." I did not answer. She studied me a moment. "The game makers are considering punishment," she said.

We knew what this meant. Punishment was corporal, and occasionally public. A career would not likely be whipped, but I was not a career. "You are not ill," she said.

"No," I answered, dully.

"Then that will not serve as your excuse."

"What?" In my fear I could not follow her.

"Your excuse for where you have been." Her voice was patient. "So you will not be punished. What will you say?"

"I don't know."

"You must say something."

Her insistence sparked anger in me. "You're the career," I snapped. That surprised her. She tilted her head a little, like a curious bird. "So?"

"So speak to a trainer, and say I was with you. They will excuse it." I said this more confidently than I felt, careers were often allowed to train privately and could bring a tribute with them, if they intended to ally with them in the arena, it was overlooked. If I had spoken for another tribute, he would have been whipped out of spite. But I was not a career. The slightest crease appeared between her eyes. "I do not like to lie," she said. _Lapdog! _I wanted to say. It was the sort of thing peacekeepers taunted out of you; even if you felt it, you did not say it. "Then take me with you to your lessons," I said. "So it won't be a lie." Her eyebrows lifted, and she regarded me. She was utterly still, the type of quiet that I had thought could not belong to careers, a stilling of everything but breath and pulse-like a deer, listening for the hunter's bow. I found myself holding my breath. Then something shifted in her face. A decision.

"Come," she said.

"Where?" I was wary; perhaps now I would be punished for suggesting deceit. "To my lesson. So, as you say, it will not be a lie. After, we will speak to my mentor."

"Now?"

"Yes. Why not?" She watched me, curious. _Why_ _not?_ When I stood to follow her, my limbs ached from so long seated on cool metal. My chest trilled with something I could not quite name. Escape, and danger, and hope all at once.

We walked in silence to the elevator and through the winding halls of the second floor and came at length to a small room, holding only a large chest and stools for sitting. Clove gestured to one and I went to it, I pulled my father's leather jacket tightly over me. Clove opened the chest. She pulled a lyre from it and held it out to me.

"I don't sing," I told her.

Her forehead wrinkled at this. "Oh? but you're so good at it"

"How do you?-" Then I remembered that night on the roof, how I sang to myself, how I thought I heard someone's breath but could only make out a black ponytail.

Strangely, I found myself not wishing to disappoint her. "My mother did not like music."

"So? Your mother is not here."

I took the lyre. It was cool to the touch, and smooth. I slid my fingers over the strings, heard the humming almost-note; it was the lyre I had seen her with the first day we met. Clove bent again into the trunk, pulled out a second instrument, and came to join me. She settled it on her thighs. the wood was carved and lightly polished. It was a guitar, my father had described the instrument to me once before I had not seen one before. Clove plucked a string. The note rose warm and resonant, sweetly pure. My mother would always scowl when father would sing, I remembered, suddenly, the dark gleam of her eyes because I sang a song father taught me. The look on her face was fear.

Clove plucked another string, and a note rang out, deeper than the other. Her hand reached for a peg, turned it.

I try to think of what it would take to scrounge up enough money to buy such an instrument. I would have to sell chickens or a wild turkey even then to expensive, maybe if I also managed to shoot another turkey or perhaps also one of our scarce oranges nope. I would most likely have to sell prim's goat and our garden and this year's tesserae ration I suppose I could trade with the baker to get some fancy bread and get a handsome price from that. All of that and days of hunting and for what? a worthless instrument that you could probably find by the thousands in the well-to-do districts or the Capitol? when all those resources could be better spent feeding the poor. I swallowed, my throat dry. "It is beautiful."

"My father gave it to me," she said, carelessly. Only the way her fingers held it, so gently, stopped me from rising in rage. I wanted to shout something. But I did not speak. What would she say to such a seemingly random and unprovoked statement? especially when she was, apparently, trying to help me?

She did not notice. "You can hold it, if you like."

"No," I said, through the ache in my chest. _I will not get angry, I will not cry in front of her._

She started to say something. But at that moment someone, I'm guessing her escort entered, a man of indeterminate middle age. He had that Capitol look about him and carried his own instrument.

"Who is this?" he asked. His voice was harsh and loud. A musician perhaps, but not a singer.

"This is Katniss," Clove said. "She does not play, but she will learn."

"Not on that instrument." The man's hand swooped down to pluck the lyre from my hands. Instinctively, my fingers tightened on it. It was not a beautiful instrument, but I did not want to give it up. I did not have to Clove had caught him by the wrist, mid-reach. "Yes, on that instrument if she likes."

The man was angry but said no more. Clove released him and he sat stiffly. "Begin," he said.

Clove nodded and focused on the guitar. I did not have time to wonder about her intervention. Her fingers touched strings, and all my thoughts were displaced. The sound was pure and sweet as water, bright as lemons. It was like no music I had ever heard before. It had warmth as a fire does, a texture and weight like polished ivory. It buoyed and soothed at once. A few hairs slipped over Clove's eyes. They were fine as lyre strings themselves, and shone.

She stopped, pushed her hair, and turned to me.

"Now you." She said.

I shook my head, on the verge of spilling I could not play now. Not ever, if I could listen to her instead.

"You play," I said.

Clove returned to her strings, and the music rose again. I sang also, weaving her own accompaniment with a clear, rich treble. Her head fell back a little, exposing her throat, supple and fawn-skin soft. A small smile lifted the left corner of her mouth. Without meaning to I found myself singing.

When at last we ceased, my chest felt strangely hollowed. I watched her rise to replace the instruments, close the trunk. She bid farewell to the teacher, who turned and left. It took me a long moment before I came back to myself, to notice her waiting for me.

"We will go see my mentor now."

I did not quite trust myself to speak, so I nodded and followed her out of the room and up the twisting hallways to here quarters.

**hey not as long as chapter 2 but this was taking to long anyway hope you liked it and tell me what you think things should pick up from here for katniss I think and don't forget to review please**


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